On The Care And Feeding Of Humans
by Vaeru
Summary: Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.
1. Introduction

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **On The Care And Feeding Of Humans 

**Summary: **Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.

**Rating: **PG

**Warnings: **mild cursing

**Author Notes:** Many people were wanting more details on Evelyn's experiences onboard Metellus Cursor, and to write out everything I had planned would take Juxtaposition far, far away from the main plotline.

Hence... side story! This will be a series of short oneshots (hence, the perpetual 'complete' under story status) detailing Evelyn's settling into life with the 'bots.

IF YOU HAVE NOT READ JUXTAPOSITION, YOU WILL _**NOT **_UNDERSTAND THIS.

**Timeframe: **Several hours after Evelyn's return from her meeting with Optimus Prime and Prowl. (post Ch. 11)

* * *

**On The Care And Feeding Of Humans**

**Introduction**

* * *

_Owning and caring for a pet decreases hyper-tension, slows the heart-rate, and lowers blood pressure.  
... Yeah. Right._**  
**_**– Unknown**_

* * *

"Oh, by Primus." 

Wheeljack glanced up from his own perusal of the files retrieved from the Earth information systems to find Ratchet glaring off into space with an expression fit to set the very air particles sizzling. The medic's optics flickered dimly as he accessed Metellus' database, frown growing steadily darker.

"Problem, Ratchet?" Wheeljack queried.

"Have you read up on dietary requirements yet?"

"Mm... A little. It looks simple enough." Wheeljack looked down at one of the datapads he had been using to take notes. "Protein, fiber, carbohydrates, vitamins, minerals. Lots of water. Nothing too difficult to replicate."

"You obviously haven't gotten to the more in-depth articles." The medic's internal systems revved moodily. "Too much sodium, she gets seizures, confusion, coma, lung paralysis, and then death. Too much potassium: heart failure, followed by death. Too much iron: vomiting, diarrhea, convulsions, and _death_. Calcium, zinc, manganese, nitrate... not even counting things like mercury or arsenic. She can overdose on _water,_ for Primus' sake."

Wheeljack accepted a transfer link from the medic and skimmed the files his companion uploaded into his databanks. His optics widened, then narrowed in contemplation. "All right, maybe not 'simple,' but not impossible."

"We've been using too much oxygen, too."

"Really?"

"Not enough to cause damage, but still. Slaggit, there are even radiation requirements."

Wheeljack jotted down several new lines of notes. "Isn't the only radiation requirement that there is no radiation?"

"Apparently not," growled Ratchet. "It says here—" Another file was sent across the link, and Wheeljack examined it obligingly. "—that they need certain wavelengths to produce vitamin 'D3', whatever the slag that is. And they get depressed without sunlight. Primus."

"Think of it as a challenge," suggested the inventor cheerfully.

"I think," snapped the medic, "that this is exactly why we have a directive forbidding the removal of unknown species from their home environments! When we're through with this, I'm going to disassemble that virus-infested, outdated son of a glitch so completely, he'll be _less_ than subatomic particles!"

"... Mirage?" asked Wheeljack in bemusement.

"No. _Sideswipe."_

Wheeljack glanced over at the storage container-cum-berth that currently held the offline organic. "Our new guest will probably want to help with that."

* * *

**End Introduction**


	2. Habitat

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **On The Care And Feeding Of Humans 

**Summary: **Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.

**Rating: **PG

**Warnings: **mild cursing

**Author Notes:** The first oneshot: providing a suitable habitat for your new human.

**Timeframe: **After Evelyn's second awakening in Metellus, before Sideswipe's 'return'. (Ch. 12-13)

* * *

**On The Care And Feeding Of Humans**

**Habitat**

* * *

_God help us. We're in the hands of engineers._**  
**_**– Ian Malcolm, **__**Jurassic Park**_

* * *

When Ratchet carried her toward the far back wall of the medbay, heading for one of several identical doorways that she had yet to go through, Evelyn wondered how the mech planned to improve on her 'towel-lined box' setup. _It's not like he has doll furniture lying around._

She blinked. _Oh. Cue weird mental images._

_Robo-Barbie. Metal fun for mechs of all ages._

She shook her head to scatter the unwanted thoughts. _Christ. I need food._

They passed through the doorway into a much smaller room dominated by a bulkier version of one of the metal worktables in the main 'bay area. Her 'box', her duffel bag, and a varied scattering of other objects rested on the table. Wheeljack stood nearby.

"Table or floor?" asked Ratchet abruptly.

She tilted her head to look up at the white and red giant's face. "Beg pardon?"

"Your new 'habitat'. On the table or on the floor?"

She pondered. She looked at the table, raised nearly twenty feet above the floor, feeling a little swirl of vertigo. She looked at the floor, slightly scuffed from wear.

She looked at Wheeljack's feet, white and square and very, very large.

"Table," she said.

Ratchet quietly rumble-laughed. "All right."

Evelyn frowned. _Do giant alien robots read minds?_

She glanced toward the table again. "Ah... I'll have a ladder or... something. Right?"

"We'll figure something out." The medic held his hand out over the table's surface, and Evelyn stepped down. As far as square-footage went, the table was as large as her apartment, or perhaps just slightly smaller. She took stock of the objects piled nearby.

_Clothes. Bed. Water container._

_All I need is a toilet and a fridge._

_Preferably, a well-stocked fridge._

A few of the items were beyond her ability to name: an empty, cylindrical container with a large conglomeration of mechanical 'stuff' attached to its side; some sort of squarish tank mounted on a spindly-looking tripod; various bits and pieces of other mechanical things that seemed to be far, far too large for her to do anything with and yet far, far too small for any of the mechs to have created.

Ratchet and Wheeljack were talking.

"—were a completely communal species, they wouldn't have individual dwellings."

"The entire culture is about interaction. Isolation might be detrimental."

"For Primus' sake, 'Jack. It's not like we're shutting her in a storage locker."

"What was that?" Evelyn asked, feeling slightly alarmed.

The medic glanced down at her. "Wheeljack thinks you should bunk with an Autobot, instead of having a private setup."

"I think I'd be more comfortable on my own," she said. "It's not like I'll lock myself in and never come out." She looked at the blinking panel mounted beside the doorframe. "I don't even think I can reach the lock."

"You won't be alone," said Ratchet. "Jazz has already claimed a spot as tour-bot whenever you feel like exploring. Within reason, of course," added the medic with narrowed eyes.

"Of course," she agreed quickly.

"Fast learner," rumble-laughed Wheeljack.

"Ah... well, what are those?" She gestured toward the two unnamed objects on the table. The inventor's head-fins flashed a bright, happy blue.

"Well, Ratchet said you needed some sort of waste disposal unit, so I did what I could." He picked up the cylinder-attached-to-a-cube. He pointed at the cylinder's open top. "Place your waste products in this opening, and this—" He gestured at a switch roughly the size of her forearm attached to the side of the cube. "—activates the suction pump. Waste products are stored in this area, where they are broken down and filtered through to here..."

Evelyn's cheeks were warm enough to boil water. She nodded in all the appropriate places, insides churning with sheer mortification.

_It's like having a cat,_ she told herself. _Feed it, water it, and scoop out the litterbox._

_At least I won't have to pee in a cube again..._

She cut off that thought before it could summon more unwanted memories.

Wheeljack set down the toilet-machine and picked up the tank-on-a-tripod.

"And I read about something called a 'shower', not unlike our washracks—simple enough to replicate. Any time you want, we can fill this tank here with water. We'll place it over a collection dish, and this lever here opens a sluice underneath..."

Wheeljack prattled happily on about pressure and piping and compact nuclear water heaters—

_Eh?!_

At which point, Evelyn informed him in no uncertain terms that nothing with the word 'nuclear' in its title was to be allowed anywhere near her water supply.

The words 'explosive', 'radioactive', and 'atomic' also qualified.

Wheeljack's head-fins flickered a dull pink. He picked up the shower and mumbled something about superheated electrical coils as a possible substitute. "Back in a little while," he said and walked out of the room.

Evelyn watched him go, stomach squirming uncomfortably.

"I didn't mean to sound ungrateful," she said at last. "I really appreciate all the work you're doing... I just don't want to grow tentacles or extra arms before I get back to Earth."

"Don't worry about it," said the medic. "'Jack doesn't know the meaning of the word 'grudge'." He smirked at her. "Nice self-preservation instincts."

She blushed. "... thank you?"

* * *

**End ****Habitat**


	3. Diet

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **On The Care And Feeding Of Humans 

**Summary: **Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.

**Rating: **PG

**Warnings: **mild cursing

**Author Notes:** Oneshot the second: humans are not particularly picky when it comes to diet... usually...

**Timeframe: **After Sideswipe's 'return', roughly two days after Evelyn's first awakening. (behind the scenes: Ch. 13)

* * *

**On The Care And Feeding Of Humans**

**Diet**

* * *

_It seems odd, don't you think, that the quality of the food should vary inversely with the brightness of the lighting. Makes you wonder what culinary heights the kitchen staff could rise to if you confined them to perpetual darkness. Could be worth a try, I think. Got some good vaults in the college that could be turned over to the purpose. I think I showed you round them once, hmmm? Nice brickwork.  
__**– **__**Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency**__**, Douglas Adams**_

* * *

'_Primus, what is _wrong_ with you?'_

Evelyn placed one hand over her grumbling, moaning stomach. _It's called hunger pangs._

'_Well, _eat _something then. There's cloth in that box over there. Have at it.'_

_What? _Evelyn glared at the tabletop since she was unable to glare at the voice itself. _What do I look like, a goat?_

'_Do _something. _This is horrible.'_

Evelyn sighed, returning to her current occupation: staring blankly into space and wishing that she had paid more attention when her sister had gone through her 'meditation-to-control-your-mind-and-body' stage.

_We'll just have to wait,_ she thought at last. _I'm out of granola... not that two bars were very filling anyway..._

_And Wheeljack said he'd be done soon._

'_I don't know if you've caught on, but Cybertronians have something of a different concept of "soon" than you humans do.'_

_He said _soon, she repeated firmly.

Outside her room, she heard the familiar hiss of the main 'bay doors opening. Like a dog hearing its owner's footsteps, she stiffened and looked toward the doorway expectantly. The voices of Ratchet and Wheeljack could be heard, coming nearer.

_Maybe soon is sooner than you think._

The two scientists stepped through the doorway, Wheeljack with an energon cube in one hand and a tray of... something in the other.

"Hello, Evelyn," greeted the inventor cheerily, head-fins flashing, "and Sideswipe, I suppose."

"Hello, Evelyn," Ratchet echoed, with considerably less cheer.

"Hi there."

"Good news!" said Wheeljack, setting down the tray on the table beside her. On it was a pile of yellow-brown cubes, each roughly the size of an ottoman with a texture similar to that of leather. He set down the energon cube, revealing that it was filled with water. "I finished the analysis of the Earth data we had, and I think I've come up with a solution to your food problem." He gestured at the cubes, and she moved closer to look. "It's a balanced blend of all the necessary nutrients of the human diet. It should be everything you need."

Evelyn eyed the cubes uncertainly. Her stomach growled.

"Well, go ahead," encouraged Wheeljack.

Tentatively, she reached out to touch one of the cubes. It was soft, almost springy, and she pulled off a piece, rolling it lightly between her fingers.

_Mama always said to never play with food..._

_Somehow, I think she'd make an exception._

It had a vaguely foamy texture, very soft, like white bread, but slightly rubbery. She made a mental note to ask one of the mechs whether or not it would spoil in open air: it would have made a wonderful mattress.

She placed the yellow-brown substance between her palms and squeezed, then held the resulting pancake in one hand and watched nervously as the alleged foodstuff promptly reinflated to its original shape and size.

Wheeljack looked on expectantly, Ratchet doubtingly.

_I suppose I should at least... _try_ it..._

'_Wait, wait, wait... You're not actually going to eat that, are you?'_

_Anything's better than starving, _she thought.

_... though I might be retracting that statement in a moment..._

The food-foam looked dry, and her mouth certainly was not watering, so she dipped her hand in the provided water and sprinkled it lightly over the small lump.

She dropped it with a squawk when the foam began to bubble and steam. It landed with a squishy thud on the tabletop and proceeded to melt into a puddle of brown slime.

"Wheeljack..." growled Ratchet.

"Whoops," said Wheeljack. "I brought the wrong group."

Evelyn stared at the inventor, wide-eyed. Ratchet sent his companion a narrow glare. Wheeljack gave a soft, sheepish rumble.

"No problem! I'll just get the other group. Won't be a breem..." The white and gray mech swept up the tray of cubes and left through the medbay doors.

'_He's a walking hazard area,' _said the voice, sounding vaguely ill.

"Ratchet," said Evelyn, "Just for future reference, I'm going to teach you something very important."

The white and red mech fixed his glowing blue eyes on her in interest. "What's that?"

"It's called the Heimlich Maneuver."

* * *

**End ****Diet**

* * *

_**Heimlich Maneuver -** An emergency technique used to eject an object, such as food, from the trachea of a choking person. The technique employs a firm upward thrust just below the rib cage to force air from the lungs. (source: American Heritage Dictionary)  
_


	4. Toys

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **On The Care And Feeding Of Humans

**Summary: **Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.

**Rating: **PG

**Warnings: **mild cursing

**Author Notes:** Oneshot the third: humans can entertain themselves in the most unique ways... but sometimes, those ways just don't translate. A very silly, very stupid, very random oneshot.

**Timeframe: **During Evelyn's first week aboard Metellus. (after Ch. 14)

_**Happy birthday, Cafei!**_

* * *

**On The Care And Feeding Of Humans**

**Toys**

* * *

_Well, stranger things have happened. No... wait... they really haven't.  
_**- Cordelia, ****Angel**

* * *

Wheeljack wasn't certain what to make of it when Bluestreak appeared in his laboratory, Evelyn in hand, and asked for a 'piece of string'.

"—about this long," said the gunner, arms spread a little wider than his shoulders, "and the thinner the better, I guess, but not so thin that you can't see it, because that would take all the fun out of it, huh, Evelyn?"

"Yes, it certainly would," said the organic femme with a smile. "How about it, Wheeljack?"

"Well, I don't see why not," said the inventor. He went to one of the storage bays lining the walls of his domain and rummaged through various bits and pieces of mechanical paraphernalia. He pulled out a spool of energon filament and unrolled the requested length, snipping it loose with a pair of wire cutters. He handed the filament to Bluestreak. "What do you need it for?"

"Evelyn's going to teach me cats-cradles," said the gunner with a grin. "Humans know the weirdest stuff, don't they? Thanks a bunch, Wheeljack!"

The young mech exited the bay in a whirl of repeated thanks and clattering footsteps. Wheeljack stared after him.

"Cats... what?"

* * *

"... now you loop it like this," instructed Evelyn, seated on the edge of the young gunner's bunk, demonstrating with her own piece of thread. "And you undo the loops over your pinkies... like so..." She held up the result, four loops of thread (one loop over each of her thumbs and index fingers) radiating out from a knot suspended between her palms. "Cat whiskers," she said, holding the knot under her nose and pulling the eight strings taut.

'_This is ridiculous. How much longer are you planning on playing with string?'_

_Between string and your brother,_ she thought,_ I'll take the string._

"... I don't think I did it right..."

The gunner held up his hands, pink filament twisted and tangled around his fingers, as though he were a human child who had been playing in his first plate of spaghetti. Evelyn eyed the mess.

"I didn't get it my first time either," she said sympathetically. "Try again?"

"Sure. What kind of mech gives up after just one try? That's what Prowl's always telling us; he gives us briefings every four orns, telling us what's going on with the other outposts..."

'_Does his vocalizer never short circuit?'_

_You're in a pissy mood, aren't you?_

The gunner wriggled his fingers, plucking at the pink strands, undoing the tangle bit by bit, talking all the while. Evelyn carefully unknotted her own string, picking at the knot with her nails until it was one long, clean loop of string again.

"Uh-oh."

"'Uh-oh'?" Evelyn looked up at the gray mech. "What's 'uh-oh'?"

"It's stuck." The mech frowned down at his thread-covered hands. He tugged at the mess, frown deepening. "Down in the joints. I can't get it loose."

"You're a big mech. Why don't you just break it?"

"Break it? Yeah, I could if I yanked. That's no problem, but it's _in _the joints; there's a lot of delicate stuff in a Cybertronian's hands, and energon filament is made to be tough. There's no telling what it could cut into!"

'_Twitchy, isn't he?'_

"Well, don't panic," she chastised. She rose, draping her string around her neck, and walked to the edge of the shelf. "Down here, please. Let's have a look."

The mech lowered his hands to her level, and she stepped between them, looking at the nearest strand, following it to where, as Bluestreak had said, it disappeared into one of the joints in his fingers. She frowned, grabbing it on either side and tugging gently. It was firmly wedged in place, and no amount of wiggling or pulling shifted it in any way.

She tried several other places where the filament had become caught, instructing the mech to bend his fingers at certain times to see if it would help, but nothing she did could loosen them. "Oh, boy. Blue, I think you're stuck. I wouldn't worry, though. Ratchet or Wheeljack could get it off you, I'm sure."

"Ratchet says," the gunner murmured bleakly, "that if anyone comes into his bay for stupidity, they'll leave with more dents than they came in with."

'_This would definitely qualify,'_ the voice contributed.

_Hush, you._ Evelyn pulled one last time at the tangle. "Well, it wouldn't have to be Ratchet. Wheeljack would help. Or Hound, or most anyone, I'm sure."

"I don't want to bother them with something like this. What if they're doing something important? It's just energon filament. There's got to be some way to get it off."

"Well, do you have scissors around here?"

"Scissors?" asked the mech, still tugging at the mess.

"Cutters. Clippers."

"No. I don't keep any in my quarters. What would I ever use them for? ... though I guess I could use them when I get into messes like this..."

"Anything at all sharp to cut it with?"

The robot frowned. "Well..."

"Well, what?"

"There is... one thing." One of his fingers twitched, pointing upward, indicating the red metal chevron adorning the front of his helm.

'_Oh, this isn't going to end well...'_

* * *

When the main 'bay doors hissed open and closed, Ratchet glanced up from his reports, looking through his window to see what new annoyance the cycle would bring him. His optics widened, and he quickly rebooted his visual receptor software to check for glitches. He stood and made his way into the medbay.

Hound stood, grinning broadly, with a red-faced Evelyn in one hand and his other hand on Bluestreak's shoulder, guiding the other mech. The gunner's wings drooped as low as Ratchet had ever seen, the upper half of his face obscured due to the fact that his hands were bound to his chevron by an impressive tangle of pink Energon filament.

Bluestreak's mouth opened.

"No." Ratchet held up one hand. "Just... no. Get on the table. I don't want to know."

* * *

**End ****Toys**


	5. Reproduction

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **On The Care And Feeding Of Humans

**Summary: **Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.

**Rating: **PG

**Warnings: **mild cursing

**Author Notes:** Number four: erm... those of the male persuasion may wish to look away.

**Timeframe: **Before the attack on Bluestreak, after Evelyn has settled into life aboard Metellus.

* * *

**On The Care And Feeding Of Humans**

**Reproduction**  
**(No, not like that, you perverts!)**

* * *

_Why do they call it PMS? Because Mad Cow was already taken.  
_**- Lefty, ****A Prairie Home Companion**

* * *

When Evelyn did not emerge from the private 'bay room after the lights had returned to their normal brilliance, the signal that it was the beginning of a new day cycle, Ratchet was curious. He looked in on her briefly to find that she was still in the storage container that had been converted into a small recharge berth, a fold of one of the towels pulled over her to cover her from head to toe. Ratchet tapped into the medbay sensors, reading her vital statistics: heart rate low, but not dangerously so; breathing slow, but within normal parameters; temperature... slightly higher than normal, but again within acceptable range. He dismissed the anomaly as unimportant and went to his office for a cube of energon.

When he emerged several breems later, Evelyn still had yet to emerge or, according to the medbay sensors, even move. Ratchet absently perused the human-related files still available in his memory banks (the important things: feeding, sleeping habits, common health problems, appropriate environmental factors), but nothing related to an extended recharge could be found that was not also related to things like dangerously high core temperatures and malfunctioning fuel-processing systems or the various human versions of a full systems crash.

He entered the room, tapping lightly on the doorframe as he did so to announce his presence. Humans had such strange practices. To his olfactory sensors, the air in the room smelled vaguely musky, but the human shed various organic liquids and particles so much that it was only to be expected

"Evelyn?"

The lump within the box made a low, grumbling noise. The medic's optics narrowed.

"Evelyn?" he repeated.

The lump shifted slightly. "G'way."

"Are you malfunctioning?" He moved over to the table and altered his optical programming from visual light ranges to heat radiation. His sight flickered to black before rebooting to reveal a room painted in shades of purple, blue, and green with one hot-spot of yellow, orange, and red registering from upon the table. He studied the human-shaped blob, noting the curled position. One flame-tinted arm shifted to cradle the lower abdomen, and he frowned. "Evelyn?"

"I said," came the muttered response, "go _away."_

"What have I told you about ordering me around in my medbay?" Reverting his optical software to visual light ranges, he reached out and pinched one corner of the towel covering the human, pulling it away from her cranial unit, and he pulled back slightly in surprise.

It had taken him quite a while to be able to decipher her multitudes of facial contortions with any sort of accuracy. It did not help that she had a habit of changing colors at odd times, mostly to various shades of pale red.

This was a glare... a very intense glare.

"Get. Out."

Ratchet wavered between concern and irritation. "What's wrong?"

"How many times do I have to say it? Get out! Scram! Beat it! Make like a robot and get your rear in gear and _get out!"_

As was his nature, he was steadily tipping nearer to irritation. "If you're trying to make me angry, you're doing a bang-up job. Now tell me what's going on before I drag you down to the lab and work it out the hard way."

Two small, pale hands had latched onto the towel and were trying to tug it loose from his fingers. He tightened his grip. The human yanked at the fabric, wiggling it from side to side, face becoming tinted with red. She gave one last almighty, ineffective yank before slumping, breathing- and heart-rate somewhat above normal.

"Please." Her voice wavered and cracked strangely. "Please, just leave me _alone."_

And to Ratchet's bemusement and consternation, her optics began to leak.

* * *

Ratchet stood outside of the private room that held the unstable organic, out of the human's range of sight, and waited impatiently for backup to arrive. He listened –intrigued, apprehensive, and irritated all at once– as the little femme's voice filtered faintly through the open doorway.

"... isn't exactly a picnic for me either, you know! You think this is fun? _I want to go home!"_

A short pause.

"Yeah, I bet you're wishing you left me on Earth, now! You think it's bad normally? Wait until you get the full joy of it: no Tylenol, no tea, no bubble-bath, or..." Another pause, and she said, sounding horrified, "No chocolate. Oh, dear _God, _no _chocolate."_

Ratchet quickly referenced the mentioned objects. Tylenol, a kind of pain-receptor disabler. Tea, a drink made from organic growths boiled in water. Bubble-bath, a type of cleaning solution. Chocolate, an edible substance made from ground organic seeds. None of this gave him any idea what could be wrong with the human femme.

"I have just found my personal hell. Outer space, giant robots, cramps, and no chocolate... You utter _bastard. _I hope Ratchet rebuilds you as a Roto-Rooter!"

* * *

Bluestreak was stopped in the entrance of the medbay by an irritated-looking Ratchet.

"You're walking under your own power," said the medic flatly, "so you obviously don't need my services. Until further notice, the 'bay is off-limits to anyone and everyone not in immediate peril of deactivation. There should be an announcement going out any breem now."

The gunner tried to peer around the other mech's boxy frame. "I, uh, I just came by to see Evelyn. Jazz and Hound and 'Bee and everyone are in the rec room, and we thought she might like to sit with us, you know, just to pass the time. Is everything okay, Ratchet?"

The medic's eyes narrowed. "Perfectly, practically _prime,"_ he replied. "Now get out."

"But what about Evely—"

A red hand shoved Bluestreak in the chest, forcing the gunner back out of the 'bay, knocking him into Wheeljack as the inventor drew near the entrance.

"Whoa, there, Blue." Wheeljack steadied the gunner. "Ratchet, what's going on—?"

"Took you long enough," snapped the medic. He reached out and grabbed the inventor by the shoulder, hauling him into the medbay. "Primus! Did you stop to recharge along the way?"

The 'bay doors hissed closed, a low _ker-lunk_ noise indicating that the lock had been engaged, leaving a confused Bluestreak standing alone in the hallway.

* * *

Wheeljack set a tray of fuel cubes beside the femme's small berth. The human was still in the storage container, seated in a slumped position with a fold of towel drawn around her shoulders. She glowered up at him.

"I'm not hungry. Not for that, anyway."

"We need to stabilize your systems somehow," he explained. "Fuel helps that, doesn't it?"

"I'm not sick," she said. "As a matter of fact, I'm healthier than I have any right to be. Lucky, lucky me." She heaved a sigh that seemed far too large to come from her tiny frame.

"Your behavior is erratic," said Ratchet, "and your systems are running at a higher temperature than the recorded normal range. Obviously, something has changed."

"I am not _sick!"_ snapped the femme. "I'm _miserable._ There's a difference. Now, unless you can create an acceptable replacement for Midol in the next three seconds, you can do me a huge favor and get out."

Ratchet latched onto the unfamiliar word and searched Metellus' databanks of Earth-related knowledge. His optics widened.

"You're menstruating," said the medic. The human's face-plate reddened noticeably, her glare increasing by several increments. "Your hormones are in flux, causing your uterus to shed its lining, an occurrence often accompanied by abdominal pain and emotional—"

"Hey! If you don't have one, you don't get to talk about it!" The human's slumped position deepened, her arms crossed over her belly. "I'm living it. I don't need the play-by-play, alright?"

Ratchet was digging deeper into the database. "Don't you need supplies of some sort? I don't know what we can produce out here."

The red shade of the human's skin deepened. "I've... got it covered. There was a first-aid kit in my bag. Of course, Dick _would_ have given me a kit without any Advil or Aleve, but at least there were bandages... why am I telling you this? I might be a professor, but there's no way in _hell_ I'm giving the pair of you PMS 101. Sideswipe is bad enough!"

"But... that's it?" asked Wheeljack, surprised. "All of this is part of your life-cycle?"

The human sent the inventor a startlingly malicious look. "No uterus," she said, "no opinion."

* * *

**End ****Reproduction**

* * *

_**Roto-Rooter -**__ the patented name of a plumber's snake, a flexible auger used to clear clogged sewage lines that cannot be cleared with a plunger_

_**Midol - **__an over-the-counter medication indicated for menstrual cramping and other effects related to premenstrual syndrome and menstruation (source: Wikipedia)_


	6. Tricks

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **On The Care And Feeding Of Humans 

**Summary: **Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.

**Rating: **PG

**Warnings: **mild cursing

**Author Notes:** Number five: for a little organic in a big mech world, sometimes it's best to learn some new tricks.

**Timeframe: **After the attack on Bluestreak, before arrival at Teyonu 8.

* * *

**On The Care And Feeding Of Humans**

**Tricks**

* * *

_You live and you learn, or you don't live long.  
_**- ****Time Enough For Love****, Robert Heinlein**

* * *

**Day One:**

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Not happening!" She scrabbled for purchase on the sleek red fingers that were so determined to set her down atop the equally sleek (and therefore, highly slippery) white shoulder. "Ratchet, don't you _dare._ I get woozy watching a Ferris wheel. I have the balance an inebriated giraffe! I can't do this!"

"We can't always carry you in our hands, and sometimes it might not be feasible to set you on the floor. Prowl insists you at least try it."

"I'll fall!" The red hand succeeded in scraping her off onto the medic's shoulder, and she hugged the featureless white metal, arms and fingers stretched wide like those of a gecko. The mech's shoulder was slightly wider and broader than a large recliner chair. It felt very small. "Ratchet..."

"I'm not even moving," said the medic. There was a whirr of mechanical parts shifting, and the head _(Oh, that's a big head...)_ turned, revealing one glowing blue eye. "You won't fall."

"There's nothing to hold on to!" The front edge dropped off in a steep slope. The back edge was a sheer drop. On one side, the medic's arm was attached, a huge cube-shape making up the top of his shoulder. On the other side, there was an opening in the white armor where the wires and tubes of the medic's neck disappeared down into his chest cavity. His white-helmed head loomed over her like the horned visage of some ancient colossus. "Don't I get a training harness or _something?"_

'_You look _ridiculous,' chortled the voice.

_Shut up!_

She made the mistake of looking over the rear edge of the medic's shoulder. The view was not unlike looking out her apartment window, merely with the gleaming metal floor of the medbay instead of a dingy alley and a pristine metal table instead of a neighboring building. Her stomach lurched.

"Ratchet... Ratchet, I'm being very serious. _Please, _put me down, or you're about to become very familiar with another facet of the human system that you _really_ don't want to know about."

"What?" The mech sounded confused.

"Put me _down_ or I'm going to throw _up."_

"Throw up..." She could hear a low whirr-hum in his head. "Oh. Please don't. Why don't you try sitting up? Sit on the edge. You can hold on to the collar-ridge in my armor to steady yourself."

_Sit up. Sit up. I... Yeah. I can do that._ She shifted slowly, inch by inch. She assumed the 'collar-ridge' was the edge of the opening in the medic's armor, not unlike a human collarbone, and she slipped her fingers over the edge and grasped it tightly enough to turn her knuckles white. The material of her jeans slid alarmingly on the low-friction surface of the mech's armor, and she squeaked in alarm.

"I c-can't do this. There's a reason humans live on the ground."

"Simulations show that if you sit up on the forward edge, there is a 99.988 percent chance that, should you fall, you will fall forward, in which case I will catch you."

Evelyn blinked, fear fading momentarily. "Simulations?" she asked incredulously.

"I did mention that this was Prowl's little idea, did I not? You can thank him for the statistics as well. Sit up."

The mech stood as still as any statue as she hesitantly shifted and wriggled around to face forward, dangling her feet over the edge, her heels bumping against the mech's chest. Her grip on the edge of the white armor was tight enough to pain her hand, and her head spun as she looked across the room. For the first time since arriving onboard the ship, she saw everything from a mechs-eye view.

"Ah... wow." She peered around, stomach still squirming uncomfortably. "This is... It looks a lot bigger from up here... somehow... I think."

'_Eloquent as always.'_

* * *

**Day Two:**

"Slower!"

"Evelyn, if I walk any slower, my shift will end before we reach the other wall."

The voice was incoherent with mirth. Evelyn's muscles felt as though they would never relax as she gripped the collar-ridge of Wheeljack's armor. Unlike Ratchet's rather Spartan body, Wheeljack's had extra projections in several places that made Ratchet's shoulders look positively spacious. She hunched her shoulders, leery of the lighted panel that loomed directly behind her skull.

_Oh, yeah. I bet you'll think it's hilarious when I'm brained by his... ear... thing... _

The voice choked out something that sounded like 'vocal indicator' between its giggles.

Ratchet watched from where he leaned against the opposite wall of the 'bay, vigilant but amused. "Almost a breem," said the medic. "You're getting better."

"Tell that to my ribs," mumbled Evelyn, pressing her free hand against her abused torso.

'_At least he caught you,' _pointed out the voice merrily.

_Laugh it up, Sideswipe. When we get back to Earth, it's tomatoes and tapioca, all day, every day!_

'_I'll be back in my own body.'_

Evelyn snarled silently. _Then I'll shove them up your _tailpipe.

* * *

**Day Three:**

"_Evy? Are you with me, baby?" A warm hand, calloused and gentle, patted at her cheek. Haloed by golden sunshine, a shadowed face loomed over her. Grass tickled her ears and the backs of her arms, filling the air with the scent of summer. She frowned._

"_Ouch," she said._

_A bass rumble, a chuckle, set the air trembling, and there was a hint of paleness in the shadow, the quick flash of a smile. _

"_Took a tumble, hmm? Are you hurt?"_

_She grinned. "My butt. And my pride."_

"_Well, that's okay then."_

"_Did she run off?"_

"_Yeah, but not far. Do you see why I wanted to do this in the pasture now?"_

"_Give her room to run."_

"_Give her room to run. Good girl. Ready for round two?"_

_Sigh. "... I guess so."_

_The hand returned, caressing her hair. "Guessing? That doesn't sound like my girl."_

"_I mean... yeah. Yes, sir. I'm ready."_

"_All right. Come on, then. We don't really know how much trauma an organic can take."_

"_Dad?"_

_Summer warmth was seeping away, and the grass was no longer a pleasant cushion beneath her shoulders. Everything was cold and hard._

"_Evelyn?"_

_The light changed, no longer yellow... but white..._

"Evelyn?"

She blinked, squinting up into the medbay lights. "I hate those things," she said grumpily.

Wheeljack and Ratchet loomed over her, heads conveniently on either side of the brilliant light that currently plagued her.

"Are you functioning?" asked Ratchet, voice sharp.

"Fine," she said. _What the hell just happened?_

'_You fell,' _said the voice. _'Pretty spectacular, too. They almost didn't catch us 'til we hit.'_

She remembered vague impressions of weightlessness and gleaming metal rushing past and an undeniable feeling of 'oh, shit.' _Ah. Yes. What number am I on?_

'_Fall number six,' _said the voice.

_Joy._

"We'll find some other way," Wheeljack was saying. "A harness of some sort, don't you think? It would be simple enough to design."

"It wouldn't fit all of us, 'Jack. Plus, there's the trouble of swapping it between mechs, and we can't all be bothered to wear a sling all day _just in case_ we might need to carry her."

Evelyn glowered. Clenching her jaw, she sat up _(Oh, head rush.)_ and began tugging at her shoes, dropping them on the table. The sound of the shoes hitting metal attracted the two mechs' attention. Her socks were shortly added to the pile, along with the medical glove. The two mechs watched with curiosity as she set about rolling up the cuffs of her slacks until her legs were bare nearly to her knee.

"What's all of this about?" asked Wheeljack.

"Skin has better traction on metal," she explained. Standing, Evelyn placed her hands on her hips. "Okay. Let's do this."

* * *

**Day Ten:**

"Hey, Blue, you've got some kind of growth on your shoulder!"

Evelyn glared down at the blue and red minibot Gears... and oh, was it not a wonderful feeling to look _down_ on a mech for a change?

"It's harder than it looks," she said, straightening slightly on the mech's shoulder, and Bluestreak continued past the minibot into the rec room.

* * *

**End ****Tricks**


	7. Handling

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

**Title: **On The Care And Feeding Of Humans

* * *

**Summary: **Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.

**Rating: **PG

**Warnings: **mild cursing

**Author Notes:** Number six: organics are fragile. Handle with care. (Not so much humor, but it was a scene that I thought needed to be written.)

**Timeframe: **Directly after chapter twenty-one (Authority) when Evelyn finally returns to 'her' room. (between Ch. 22-23)

* * *

**On The Care And Feeding Of Humans**

**Handling**

* * *

_Baby doll, I've had me one helluva bad day. I've been beaten up every time I turn around._  
**- Jack Rafferty, Sin City  
**

* * *

Ratchet did not mean to interrupt her grooming period. There had been mix-ups early on, of course, before the femme had introduced them to the concept of 'knocking.' On this occasion, the medic had just finished the last bits of repair work on the mechs still in the repair bay and felt the undeniable need to check up on his remaining patient. 'Knocking' was not a concept that registered in his cognitive processes at the moment.

The little femme had stripped herself of her flimsy outer coverings and now wore only the small, simple coverings for her lower body and upper chest. She knelt beside a cube of water, unmoving, her head and arms glimmering with moisture. She jerked as the door entered, sending spatters of water across the table, and looked over her shoulder at him, blinking.

Ratchet's optics widened as he realized his blunder, and the sensitivity of his aural receptors toned down several levels in anticipation of the forthcoming indignant shriek...

None came.

"Ratchet..." The word came as a resigned sigh, voice scratchy and quiet, and her arms rose to cross over her chest. She leaned back against the cube, legs curled close to her body in what he recognized as a position meant to conceal as much of her form as possible. "What've I told you about knocking?"

Ratchet's ever-present frown deepened, and he eyed the femme suspiciously. "As I recall, you screeched, 'Knuckles! Door! _Compute?'_ and threw one of your foot-coverings at me."

"And it still didn't sink in, hm?" she asked mildly. She brushed at the damp tendrils of hair falling across her face, drawing his attention to the not-quite-white cloth wrapped around her forearm. To his sensitive optics, the faint pink smudge showing through the material was easily discernable.

"Are your self-repair systems working correctly?" he asked. When she merely looked confused, he said, "Your arm."

She looked at the limb in question and frowned, and Ratchet wondered whether organic processors were truly that inferior to those of Cybertronians' or she were suffering an ailment of which he was unaware.

"Evelyn?" he prompted, moving nearer to the table.

"'m fine," she mumbled. She shook her head, blinking rapidly. "Sorry. Think 'm ready t' crash."

His systems spiked at the word 'crash.'His medical sensors all came online with a surge of energy that set the tactile sensors in his hands and faceplate tingling. He ran through the standard checks as fast as his processor could interpret the data: heart-rate, rate of breathing, temperature, neural activity... all lower than the recorded norms. How much trauma had she endured during the battle? "Evelyn?"

"What?" She squinted up at him.

"Are you functioning?"

"'m conscious, aren't I?"

"Your systems are not performing at their usual levels. Are you damaged somewhere other than your arm?"

She eyed him muzzily for a moment, mouth twisting into an unamused frown. He was pleased to see her vitals rising slightly, but her answer was not pleasing in the least:

"Would you like th' list alphabetically or by location?"

"Explain."

She avoided his gaze, glowering at nothing in particular. Moving with extreme reluctance, she lowered her arms to her sides, and Ratchet felt his systems heat with ire at the sight of the oddly-colored bands of skin spanning her abdomen, blue and purple and green...

Tissue damage. He accessed the 'human files' in Metellus' database and researched. Bruising. Broken microscopic tubing beneath the skin. Signs of trauma. Pain.

"Nothin' broken, at least," Evelyn was saying. "That really _would_ be a nightmare. Broken bone, an' no one around to set it but a giant alien r—mech."

There were more markings, now that he knew what to look for, scattered across her limbs.

"Turn," he ordered.

She seemed to suffer some kind of brief optic spasm, looking toward the ceiling and sighing, but she rose shakily to her feet. She swayed, and he offered his hand as a support. Her hand was a tiny spot of warmth upon his palm as she leaned upon him, turning her back toward him, revealing another set of colorful bands.

"Your skin is very sensitive to pressure," he observed quietly.

"My skin," she retorted, her voice still coming as a hoarse, tired half-sigh, "is not meant to stand up to back-to-back rounds of 'Squeeze The Squishy.'"

Ratchet rumbled irritably. "The files indicate they will heal on their own. Is there anything you need?"

"Warm bath would be heaven. Dunno, though. Prob'ly fall asleep an' drown m'self."

"Later, then."

"Later," she agreed.

"Anything else? Your arm?"

"... fine."

"I'll check it during your next day-cycle."

"Mm."

"You'll have to tell me if anything is wrong," he said, a bit of warning creeping into his tone.

"Mm-hm."

"Evelyn?"

"Mm?" She seemed to be leaning even more heavily upon his hand, her heartbeat and respiratory rates slowing again, and he recognized this pattern in her vitals now. She was halfway to being in a recharge cycle.

Still frowning, he used his hands to coax her nearer to her recharge berth, and the little femme did not seem to even be aware she was moving. She stumbled when it came to stepping over the raised lip of the box but settled down atop the towels readily enough. Her optic-shutters were already closed by the time her head touched the berth.

Ratchet pinched the corner of a loose towel between his fingers and pulled it over the human's small frame. She did not move. He took one last reading of her vitals before leaving.

The door to the private room hissed closed behind him, and Ratchet absently performed a visual once-over of his 'bay.

Optimus Prime had requested that the repairs on the Decepticon prisoners take place as soon as Ratchet had the time to spare. The medic set his systems to automatically log any anomalies in his patients that the medbay sensors detected and retreated to his office.

The repairs on the damaged Decepticons would be a delicate matter. He would have to choose his tools very carefully.

_Very_ carefully.

* * *

**End ****Handling**


	8. Hygiene

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title:** On The Care And Feeding Of Humans 

**Summary: **Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.

**Rating:** PG

**Warnings: **mild cursing

**Author Notes:** Number seven: to keep your human happy and healthy, regular bathing should be included as part of a daily routine.

**Timeframe:** Some time after Sunstreaker has been assigned as part of Evelyn's 'socialization' schedule. (post Ch. 25)

* * *

**On The Care And Feeding Of Humans**

**Hygiene**

* * *

_If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the hot tub!  
_**- Principle Wexler, "Even Stevens"**

* * *

The lake stretched before her, glistening water rippling invitingly, tendrils of steam rising from its surface. Evelyn stared in amazement, lungs laboring pleasantly to draw in the humid air, hair already beginning to lay more heavily down her back from the moisture. The metal surroundings did not matter, nor did the strange square shape of the lake's shore. It was water, and it was _warm._

However, it was not empty... not completely. Large enough to hold perhaps ten to twelve mechs, the nearest edge was occupied by the gray, green, and yellow minibot Brawn and the imposing black form of Trailbreaker. Brawn glanced mildly in her direction before returning to his conversation with Trailbreaker. She was at a loss to determine the expression of the black mech (a visor _and_ facemask made that difficult), but he and Hound had always been perfectly pleasant to her in the past.

"Keep out of the way," grunted Sunstreaker, plunking her unceremoniously on the floor just inside the washrack door and striding toward the lake. Trailbreaker and Brawn moved to provide the yellow mech with more than ample room as he slid in with a rush of water, slopping waves up onto the deck plating.

_I haven't seen this much water since Lake Lanier, _she thought.

'_If we're spending time with Sunny,' _said the voice, a sense of bubbly cheerfulness at their new situation overlying every word, _'then get used to it. He probably spends more time here than in his quarters.'_

To her right was a wall lined with what could only be described as four-story shower stalls, the floor not solid plating but huge grates. To the left, the floor was also grates, and the ceiling bore what looked like enormous vents.

_I'm in the giant alien robot locker room. _Despite the rationality that 'they don't wear clothes; they can't get naked,' her cheeks still heated with a blush.

She walked further into the room, remaining on the strip of solid flooring leading toward the lake, her bare feet slapping lightly against the moist metal. The gigantic well of water swelled in her vision, larger and larger, and the filthy clothes upon her back itched as though infested with a thousand lice.

"Hey there, Evy," rumbled Trailbreaker. From the furthest corner, Sunstreaker eyed her with an expression than managed to be blank and menacing all at the same time.

"Hi, Trailbreaker. Hello, Brawn."

"Hey."

Evelyn tried to estimate the depth. Trailbreaker and Sunstreaker were both very large mechs, and the water covered them to the top of their chests. She could see their lower bodies as vague, colored blobs beneath the rippling surface, and it seemed that there was a series of large steps leading down. Brawn was seated upon one of the steps, his head on the same level as the other two mechs.

_Minibots need a place to sit, too._

"... is there soap or anything in there?" she asked, a vague notion beginning to take shape in her mind. "Or just water?"

"In here?" Trailbreaker sounded mildly surprised. "Just water. This basically rinses off dust. The washracks are for scrubbing." He nodded toward the shower stalls.

"Is that so," she murmured.

_Why, why didn't I pack a swimsuit?_

_Although..._Her cheeks burned fiercely with a new blush. _My bra and underwear _are _dark colors... _

Abruptly, an inner battle broke out.

Superego put in its two cents, shrilling about things like _dignity_ and _shame_ and _don't you even dare! _in a voice that sounded frighteningly like her Gram Meredith.

_Oh, like they'd care, _sniped her Id. _They wouldn't care if you went _nude.

Ego huddled in a ball of indecisive misery, mewling the word _bath_ over and over and over again.

Lowering herself to sit on the edge ("Careful, there," cautioned Trailbreaker.), she trailed her toes through the water. She was vaguely aware of three mechs watching her with disconcerting intensity, but the water was even warmer than she had hoped, stinging lightly at first before dying down to a pleasant burn. Tingles of pleasure ran up and down her calf.

Sideswipe chose that moment to speak up, and he sounded disturbed as he said,_'You aren't really thinking about...'_

_I wouldn't be _naked-_naked.__There are swimsuits that cover less._

Ratchet and Wheeljack had certainly walked in on her often enough. They had never cared except for those few times there had been something handy for her to chuck at their heads.

A glance at her fingernails, dark with filth, decided her.

Before she could possibly have second thoughts, she heaved herself to her feet, nodded briefly to the three mechs, muttering a quick 'excuse me,' and yanked her blouse off over her head. The button of her jeans popped open with ease born of extreme wear-and-tear, the zipper whining in protest, and she shucked her slacks off, kicking them over on top of her shirt.

Sideswipe was jabbering something at her, but she ignored him, focused on her goal.

Two quick steps back gave her room for a bit of a running start, and she launched herself toward the water in a sort of half-cannonball, hand coming up to pinch her nose just moments before the world disappeared in a roar of bubbles and delicious, fiery _heat._

Of course, that was when Sideswipe panicked.

Instead of the strong, sure strokes she had used since long before she could remember, since she had first learned to swim in her parents' pond, her limbs flailed without order or direction, bubbles gushing past her lips, water flooding eyes wide with terror and open mouth and unguarded nose.

_You—!_

_Sideswipe, you moron! _Let go!

The voice had no reply, thoughts echoing as disjointed, indecipherable gibbering in her mind, perfect counterpoint to the panicked thrashing of her body, and Evelyn had a moment for one clear thought beneath her own growing terror: _If we survive this, I am going to _kill_ him._

The world twisted and writhed, up becoming down, and everything hazed by shimmering masses of bubbles, and a huge _something_ swept through the simmering veil of disturbed water, slamming into her side and dragging her over and up and out, sound returning so abruptly that it was almost as though someone had flipped a switch: water splashing, engines revving, droplets pattering upon metal, and her own coughs and gags and gasps as her body did all in its power to expel the liquid from her throat and lungs.

She lay sprawled across slick, yellow metal, and when she raised her head, peering through the sopping wet tendrils of her hair, it was to come face-to-face with the snarling visage of an infuriated Sunstreaker.

"_Has your CPU crashed?" _roared the mech, eyes glowing white. "You could have deactivated yourself! Do you _want_ to die?"

Brawn's and Trailbreaker's voices came as background static to her ears as she spit out the last of the water and wiped at her eyes.

"Oh, please!" she snapped, shivering in the open air. _"You_ were the one moaning about how filthy I am!"

"Since when does stating the fact that you _stink_ translate into 'drown yourself'?! _You could have killed Sideswipe!"_

"_Sideswipe _could have killed _me! _If your moron of a brother could stop bodysnatching for _five minutes, _I would have been perfectly fine! You've been to Earth, haven't you? Don't either of you know that humans can _swim?"_

The abrupt, blank look upon the mech's face informed her that this particular fact had managed to escape him. The sudden silence at the back of her mind revealed that Sideswipe was likewise unaware. Evelyn snorted.

"Jesus. All this because _you_ sink like a rock," she muttered. "Now if you'll excuse me, _Sunshine..."_

Do_ try and control yourself, _she growled at the voice. _I'm taking a bath_, _and God help you if you say I'm not!_

The water was only a couple meters below her, and she pushed herself over the edge of the yellow mech's hand, plunging back into the pool. This time, the pleasant rush of hot water was met with a faint trembling in her limbs before Sideswipe retreated.

'_How can you enjoy this?' _he demanded. _'You can't ventilate under water. You can't even seal your systems like mechs can!'_

She oriented herself with several instinctive strokes of her arms, shaking her head and luxuriating at the delicious sensation as every section of her hair was caressed by the water. _Well, I don't know how _mechs_ do it. There's really nothing to holding your breath, though. _

She kicked upward, sputtering slightly as her head broke the surface. Kicking her legs steadily to keep herself afloat, she wiped water out of her eyes, turning to say something to Sunstreaker, but the intense, fixed gazes of all three mechs derailed her train of thought.

_And that right there, _she told the voice, _is what we on Earth call the Mother Hen Look._

"I'm fine!" she insisted, breathing a little heavier than normal from exertion, treading water. "Look, most humans can swim. If not very well, then at least enough to keep their heads above water. We can hold our breath for a couple minutes, too, so it's _fine."_

"Ratchet's gonna' blow a gasket when he hears about this," muttered Brawn.

"Probably," she replied, laughing, and dove back under the water.

_Maybe spending time with Sunstreaker won't be so bad after all._

* * *

**End****Hygiene**


	9. Communication

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.**  
**

* * *

**Title:** On The Care And Feeding Of Humans 

**Summary:** Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.

**Rating:** PG

**Warnings: **mild cursing

**Author Notes:** Number eight: humans can create a wide range of noises in order to communicate.

**Timeframe:** After Evelyn's discovery of the Cybertronian language. (post Ch. 27)**  
**

* * *

**On The Care And Feeding Of Humans**

**Communication**_  
_

* * *

_If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head.  
If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.  
_**- Nelson Mandela**

* * *

Even through the faint pressure of a headache, a near-constant affliction at this point, Evelyn's mind raced with a gleeful sort of energy, a ball-point pen from her purse in one hand as she knelt atop a sheet of synthesized paper (_a la_ Wheeljack) roughly the square-footage of a king-sized mattress. The size was probably because that was how large the mechs' datapads were, and it was awkward to write on with any semblance of organization, but she had sketched out a grid of roughly 8 1/2" x 11" rectangles. Later, perhaps, she would see if one of the mechs would trim the paper down so that she could stack the rectangles like a notebook, but right now... 

Right now, she was having a brainstorm of the most magnificent kind, and she needed to _write._

_Sounds... sounds... _she mused, sketching out a key of IPA phonetic symbols. _Many of these probably don't exist in Cybertronian, though, judging by their reaction when I had my nosebleed, so there are probably going to be sounds that IPA doesn't account for..._

She murmured, "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog," and then repeated it again and again, lingering over the syllables, feeling the way her mouth moved. 'Fox' and 'dog' came out in English, blunt and straightforward amidst the muddled hisses, buzzes, growls, clicks, and god-only-knew what other sounds that constituted Cybertronian, the strange noises sounding considerably stranger coming from her limited human vocal cords. She had to concentrate to hear the difference, though, and there was the difficulty.

_If I can't readily tell the difference between English and Cybertronian, how can I make this work? _

_'Why would you want to, anyway?'_

_First contact with an alien species _and_ a free 'download' of said alien language, and you expect me to sit back and do nothing?_

_'What's the point? No one _but_ you knows about us.'_

Evelyn began to list out the Latin (and Greek) alphabet characters not already included in the IPA key to give her a ready source of symbols for any new sounds she needed to transcribe. _Sideswipe, I am a language _geek._ This is fun for me, believe it or not. _

_The fact that it's the greatest linguistic discovery of the millennium is just icing on the cake._

The voice laughed. _'Is this where you say "fascinating"?'_

_To be honest, I think I'm going to be saying that quite a lot in the foreseeable future. _She tapped the pen against her mouth thoughtfully, shifting to ease a kink in her spine. _Do you think Ratchet would help with this?_

_'Doc Hatchet? Nah.' _Slyly, Sideswipe added, _'But Sunny knows Cybertronian and English. He could help.'_

_Sideswipe, if I need someone dismembered, I'll call your brother. For this? No._

She circled a few likely symbols, writing out some katakana and hiragana as well just to keep her mind and pen moving. Inspiration struck, and she grinned broadly at the disorganized muddle of foreign symbols.

Jazz _knows Cybertronian and English, _she thought. _Hmm..._

_'What are you "hmm"ing about?'_

_Just wondering if Met is in a good mood. _She glanced thoughtfully at the blinking keypad beside the door. _How did this go again...?_

She cleared her throat. "Ah... Evelyn to Jazz?"

She half-expected some sort of snarky comment from Sideswipe, but the voice seemed just as interested to see whether the little experiment would work.

There was a soft _click, _a faint hiss, then the familiar drawl of the black and white mech seemed to come from all around.

**"Jazz here. Well, paint me blue an' call me Prime, you've learned a neat li'l trick there, haven't ya?"**

Evelyn's smile stretched across her face until her cheek muscles hurt. "Hello, Jazz. Am I interrupting anything?"

**"Not a thing, li'l lady. I was jus' about t' head over t' th' rec room. Whatcha' need?"**

"Would you mind swinging by and taking me along? I'm working on a... project. I'm trying to transcribe your language, and since you know English and Cybertronian, I thought you might be able to help. Er, that is, if you wanted to."

**"No problem." **In fact, the mech sounded intrigued. **"Be there in a tic. Jazz out."**

* * *

Evelyn leaned back to look over the expansive columns of notes now covering about half of the giant sheet of paper, which the black and white mech had been kind enough to roll up and carry for her. 

"Jazz, you are the coolest mech in the history of all mechs. All right, now, how does your writing system work? Do you have an alphabet or is it syllabaric or logographic?"

His energon cube set aside for the time being, Jazz rumbled in amusement. "Gonna' hafta' put that in Iacon-standard for me, Evy."

"Oh. Um, alphabet is where a symbol stands for a consonant or a vowel, like English. Syllabaric is where a symbol represents a consonant _and _a vowel, like Japanese hiragana and katakana. Logographic is where a symbol represents an object or idea, like Chinese."

"Hmm." The light behind the mech's visor flickered; no doubt he was accessing Metellus' databases to clarify her explanation. "Bit o' th' second an' third. Mostly 'syllabaric', but there are some things, like names, that are written as glyphs. Here."

He reached toward a blank corner of her paper, and a tiny instrument extended from his finger, ending in a tiny pincer, deftly plucking the pen from Evelyn's fingers.

"This--" He held his hand still, the pincer moving independently to scrawl out a little string of the angular characters that made up Cybertronian script, writing far smaller than a being of his stature should have been able to manage. "--is my name, 'spelled out' as you'd say. This--" He jotted down a far more complicated character, elegant curves and sharp angles coming together in something that was just short of a work of art. "--is my glyph."

When he pulled his hand back, Evelyn leaned over to peer at the two words, enthralled.

"Jazz..." she murmured, trying to feel the word on her tongue to get a sense for the _real _pronunciation and not the way her mind perceived it. It was more than one syllable, and she rolled it around in her mouth.

_I'm not saying "Jazz". So what am I saying?_

_'You don't have a word for it. It's a music style from Cybertron.'_

"Huh," she muttered. "Well, what about Sunstreaker, then?"

Jazz rumbled but obliged her, scrawling out another line of characters and a second glyph.

She repeated the exercise, saying the warrior's name softly to herself._ Sunstreaker... Sun... Streak..._

The name broke down easier than Jazz's had, perhaps because she had ready words to explain it. It implied a color like sunlight but also great speed, so that the name was actually "One-Like-A-Streak-Of-Sunlight" than simply Sunstreaker.

Inwardly, she thrilled at the progress.

"Sideswipe?" she asked, smiling hopefully at the black and white mech.

Again, he jotted down a line of characters and a glyph.

"Si-i-i-ideswipe. Sideswipe." She frowned as she muttered to herself, and then she could not help but chuckle as the name broke down into its parts. The name meant 'sideswipe' as in a wreck, but it had an interesting inflection that implied that the one named was the swip_er_ rather than the swip_ee._

_The-One-Who-Sideswipes, _she thought. _It fits so well. I'm stunned that your brother's real name isn't The-One-Who-Scares-All-Shitless._

_'Well, it _would_ have been that,' _replied the voice flatly, _'but no one really wants to be called Shitstreaker.'_**  
**

* * *

**End ****Communication****  
**

* * *

**IPA - **International Phonetic Alphabet. A system of phonetic notation based on the Latin alphabet, devised by the International Phonetic Association as a standardized representation of the sounds of spoken language. (source: Wikipedia) 


	10. Uncommon Health Problems

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **On The Care And Feeding Of Humans

**Summary: **Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.

**Rating: **PG

**Warnings: **mild cursing

**Author Notes:** Number nine: no matter how many precautions you take, there is still a chance your human may become ill.

**Timeframe: **After Sunstreaker and Jazz go MIA on the human sitting roster. (During Ch. 28: Worse)

DO NOT READ THIS BEFORE READING JUX CH. 28 OR THERE WILL BE SPOILERS.

* * *

**On The Care And Feeding Of Humans**

**(Un)common Health Problems**

* * *

_**Kaylee:**__ Well, Shepherd told us a funny story about bein' a preacher, now you tell us a funny story about bein' a doctor.  
__**Simon:**__ Ah, a funny story.  
__**Jayne:**__ Yeah, 'cause sick people are hi-larious.  
_**- ****Firefly**

* * *

Ratchet was in a temper.

Wheeljack's vents whuffled softly as he peered through the doorway of the medic's office. The CMO sat at his desk, splayed fingers of one hand drumming loudly upon the desktop, other hand gripping a datapad hard enough for the tempered metal frame to creak.

"Bluestreak just took her up to the rec room," said the inventor, easing into the room cautiously. Odds were that it was safe to do so, but Ratchet in a temper also equalled Ratchet throwing things, and no one onboard Metellus was unaquainted with the good doctor's notorious throwing arm.

"I know," replied the medic tersely, free hand rising to tap the side of his helm pointedly.

_Ah, the medbay sensors. Or is he using shipwide sensors now?_

"You're running a constant uplink?" asked Wheeljack, somewhat startled but then realizing what a stupid question that had been. "For how long?"

"Half an orn."

"Ratchet!"

"Don't start, 'Jack."

"You're going to stress your systems if you keep that up. You weren't designed for constant data-streaming like Prowl."

The medic gave a humorless little rumble. "Believe me, I am well aware of that fact." Pale blue eyes glanced up from the datapad. "And don't tell me you wouldn't do the same."

"Well, yes, but that's not the point," replied Wheeljack with a quiet rev of his systems. "When was the last time you refueled?"

"Last shift change."

"And the last time you recharged? A _full _recharge, mind you, not standby mode."

"Don't you have something to be tinkering with?" came the growled reply, and Wheeljack's optics narrowed.

_Avoiding the question. Bad sign._

"Ratchet, you're the medic. You know better than anyone how much recharge your body requires to function."

"Exactly. So I know how far I can push it. 'Jack, I'm busy."

"With what?" The inventor waved his newly-rebuilt arm back at the empty, spotless 'bay behind him. "No one's had so much as a ding since Teyonu, and I can take over the uplink long enough for you to recharge and defrag."

"Have you looked at Evelyn's data lately?"

"Not... lately." He tilted his head curiously, eyeing the datapad the medic held. "Is something wrong?"

Ratchet extended the 'pad toward his friend, and Wheeljack took it, scanning the contents swiftly. A faint surge of alarm along his circuits set his tactile sensors tingling.

_**Fuel intake: decreased.  
****Body mass: decreased.****  
Temperature: increased.  
****Internal fluid pressure: increased.  
Pump rate: increased.**_

"Oh," he said faintly.

"And," said Ratchet, tired and irritated and concerned all at once, "her recharge cycles are getting longer and her online periods shorter. It takes her longer to switch between the two, and Jazz has reported her 'drifting off' more than once in the rec room. I've advised him to let her be, but she's always disoriented when she onlines if we move her back here when that happens."

"By the snarling of your systems, I assume there's more."

"Oh, of course. More headaches. More 'nosebleeds'. Activity in her nervous-system circuits has increased, and I don't know if it's because Sideswipe's spark is caving to the stress or her system is trying to eject him somehow... or both. From everything that the human literature says, the human body is very sensitive to outside invaders of any sort; if anything, what's surprising is how long her body has tolerated the spark." The medic's optics darkened briefly. "And all of this is just adding more stress on her systems which makes the symptoms more severe which adds more stress... It's the feedback loop from the Pit."

"And the only way to counter it is to return Sideswipe's spark to his shell."

Ratchet grunted a sullen agreement.

"And you're waiting for the retrieval team to return to begin reconstructing the shell."

Another grunt.

Wheeljack set the 'pad gently atop the metal desk. He stood for a moment in silence, processors running down several venues of thought at once.

"Well," he said at last, "if we have to wait..."

The shipwide comm activated with a faint crackle of static, and Prowl's voice came through, characteristically solemn.

**"Prowl to Ratchet. Shuttle is approaching. Patching through shuttle communications now."**

Ratchet had risen to his feet, optics narrowed, frame tense. Another crackle of static rang out in the small office, and Jazz's drawl, _un_characteristically solemn, emerged from the speakers.

**"Jazz here, Ratchet. We've got th' shell."**

"Understood," replied the medic, the tone of his voice turning the lone word into a question: _what aren't you telling me?_

**"... doc, it ain't pretty."**

* * *

**End ****(Un)common Health Problems**


End file.
